


The Heartbreak Watchers

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 15:32:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4966423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: Prompt. Of all the things she imagined would happened when she'd come back, an overprotective team over Root wasn't one. Basically Finch, Reese, Fusco (and bonus for Zoe too) giving Shaw the 'don't hurt her' speech because they saw how Root was during Shaw's time with Samaritan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heartbreak Watchers

Bullets scream as the whiz past her, streaking by faster than her eyes can focus.  _It doesn’t matter._  Blossoms of light burst from the ends of gun barrels, their owners hidden behind pillars and ducking below trashcans. _It’s all meaningless._

Shaw charges forward, dodging behind the smallest scraps of cover while shooting back at the perpetrators, eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. Her wrist snaps back with the recoil of each round, every jolt coupled with a loud metallic crack.

_‘POP POP POP!’_

Three men drop, hands clutching their knees, and Shaw feels the curl of a smirk tugging at the corner of her lip.  _It’s good to be back_. Another gun wielding man pops up like a target at a carnival game; Shaw takes him down before his finger ever touches the trigger.

_‘POP POP POP!’_

Silence.

A soft, slow ringing swallows Shaw’s ears as her vision becomes fuzzy. Her charge turns into a slow walk, hands aiming her firearm in all directions all at once, not sure where to-

* * *

 

_There_. His gun is pointed at her, finger on the trigger. Shaw pivots towards him as fast as she can, but the quicker she moves the more her ears ring and the blurrier her vision becomes. She stops, gains herself.

_Too long._

His finger pulls down at the trigger, icy eyes unforgiving as he stares at her. They both wait for the bullet.

_'POP!’_

He falls to the ground, hand gripping at his chest half a second after it’s ripped apart, the bullet coming from somewhere behind Shaw. She blinks as the ringing subsides and normalcy returns to her. Taking one last sweep, she finds the coast clear, and lowers her weapon.

Reality catches up to her, the air becoming silent save for the distant moans of those gunned down. The wind that once brushed against Shaw’s face as she threw herself into Danger’s throng disipates, allowing warmth to creep back into her cheeks.

Something warm slides down her face. Drips onto her shoulder. Drips again. Bringing a hand to her cheek, she swipes at it, drawing her fingers back to the sight of sticky crimson. She rolls her jaw around, squints her eyes, then shrugs.  _Flesh wound_.

Stowing her gun into her waistband, Shaw turns, heading back towards the end of the block, avoiding gaping stares and the onslaught of wailing sirens. Ducking into the closest alleyway, she finds a gun pointed at her chest.

Their number.

“I  _knew_  there was a reason I didn’t like you,” Shaw says to him cooly, smirk hovering on her face, slouching with a relaxed disposition.

“C’ _mon_ ,” he responds, New York accent blaring. “I didn’t let that guy  _kill_  you. Gotta count for somethin’.”

“I’m not a big fan of keeping  _tabs_ ,” Shaw responds, narrowing her eyes as he grins.

“Me neither,” he says. “Which is why, although you helped me this far, you’ve got to go.” There is a click as he takes the safety off- it sounds like a bomb. “Any last words?” He asks.

“You thinking kneecaps or center mass?”

Before he has time to wonder what Shaw means, two final blasts echo into the air, and he drops to the ground, shrieking as his knees turn to dust. Kicking his gun out of reach, Shaw tightens her ponytail, looking up to see Root.

She’s pale, knuckles sheet white and ready to split from her ironclad clutch on her firearms. Her eyes are dark and wide, haunted as if seeing a ghost right before her. Root’s lips are pressed into a thin slit, her hands shake and knees tremble, all the while her teeth chatter louder than any gunshot.

“Mind putting that  _down_?” Shaw cracks, a hint of irritation creeping into her voice as she walks forward. Brushing past Root, Shaw watches from the corner of her eye as Root shakily lowers her weapons, then stows them away and follows Shaw down the side-street. Shaw slows just enough for Root to be at her side, yet says nothing as Root hollowly travels on.

“Are you okay?” Root’s voice is so distant Shaw almost thinks it was in her head.

“What?”

“Are you  _okay_?” She asks again, now studying Shaw’s face. The gaze is hard and scrutinizing, and Shaw feels pinned down by its weight.

“ _Fine_ ,” she spits out, swiping subconsciously at her face again, then wiping the blood down her jeans.

Coming out to the empty street, Shaw heads purposefully towards their car, only to find a tall man in a crisp grey suit leaning against the hood. Seeing them, he stands up straight, heading their way easily.

“What, no 'hi, John’?” He teases as Root approaches. She doesn’t say anything- there isn’t even a smile. John Reese looks her over a moment, then brings an accusatory eye to Shaw.

Shaw raises her eyebrows, waiting for him to say one thing. Give her one reason to unsheathe her claws.

“Harold wants to talk with you,” he says simply, before turning back to Root. “Mind if I drive back with you?” She shakes her head, then starts towards the SUV, not bothering to make a witty goodbye. Shaw, shoving her hands in her pockets, rolls her tongue across her teeth in annoyance as she watches them step into the car, rev it, then speed away.

“He  _better_  have coffee with him,” Shaw mutters to herself, breath rising like smoke into the air. “ _And_  the dog.”

________\ If Your Number’s Up /___________

“You take it black?” Harold asks, and she wheels around, not hearing him approach. He hands her out a Styrofoam cup, holding his own close to his chest. Shaw says nothing, merely takes the cup from him and secretly relishes the heat that seeps into her fingers. Bear sits at his side loyally, although his tail wags with pent up energy, waiting to pounce forward and play.

She stares at him, waiting.

“There’s no simple way to put this,” he starts off, his voice like a sigh as he ambles forward. He takes a sip of his coffee, watching the world unfold before him in a way different from any Shaw can fathom. She sees it in threats and in thrills; his finds it in numbers and rules.

Shaw, realizing Harold has fallen deep in thought, takes a swig of the scalding liquid, not flinching as it scorches her throat and boils her stomach. They travel down the block a while longer, a few skeletons and jack-o-lanterns sitting outside of shops and resting in apartment windows. Finally, Shaw’s patients shrivels in the heat of her anger, and irritation ensues.

“John said you wanted me?” She prompts, jaw clenching as she watches her breath travel into the air again.  _And couldn’t it have been somewhere warmer?_ she adds internally.

Harold nods. Says nothing.

Three agonizing minutes pass until Shaw can take it no more; she stops, allowing Harold to take a few more steps before pausing as well, Bear giving a small whine as he looks back to Shaw with questioning eyes. Harold turns slowly, coming back to her with a trepidatious caution that makes Shaw mentally roll over all the things she’s done since getting back.

She’d only been home bound three days, but in that time managed to tally up an ugly bruise on her ankle, a possible-  _very slight chance kind of_ \- fractured rib, a finger out of socket-  _which I put back_ \- and now the scrape against her cheek.  _Barely a knick,_  she reminds herself, looking past Harold to her reflection in a window to check for any more bleeding. _Barely a scratch._

“I have never questioned you on your recklessness,” Harold says to her, eyes hard and set on the task at hand. “I might have questioned your  _people_  skills,” Shaw narrows her eyes, “but they’ve gotten- somewhat- better.”

“You drag me out here to make sure I’m using my manners?” She asks with annoyance, nails digging into the sides of her cup.

“No. I want to talk to you about Miss. Groves.” Shaw stiffens, the last traces of her breath evanescing above her- she doesn’t breathe. Instead, she lets the words sink in, turning off all functions other than her mind. Face shut down, arms shut down, legs shut down, head processing.

“What about her?” She questions at last, movements slowly coming back to her. The question feels foreign on her tongue, as if someone else said it through her, but she doesn’t let it show.

“Do you remember how she was when you first met her?”

Shaw smirks, the memory of being tasered and tied to a chair surfacing before her eyes. “If you mean crazy, then  _yes_.”

“Blithe,” he adds, not meeting her eyes as he begins to walk once more. “Crazy and blithe.”  _And the punch line is…?_ Shaw waits, patients again faltering as the objective of his spiel remains unclear. “After-… the stock exchange,” he coughs, “she became rather desolate.  _Distant_.”

“And that’s my problem,  _why_?” She demands, growing uncomfortable. Her thoughts dive back to Root, trying to pick apart any inconsistencies. The shake of her hands, the paleness in her cheeks every time she and Shaw had a new number. Things Shaw blew off before come back to haunt her.

“What I’m trying to get at is this: now that you’re back, she’s going to have to readjust. It will take time. In that time, it would be greatly appreciated if you stayed out of harm’s way.” Shaw tilts her head, trying hard not to let her fist accidentally collect with his oh-so-fragile face.

“So,  _what_? Are you going to  _sit me out_?” Every fiber of her being radiates contempt and disapproval to the idea, and by the flicker in Harold’s eyes, he knows it.

“No,” he responds, taking another slug from his cup. “But you have been deeper in trouble these past few days than in recent missions. All I’m asking is for you to take a step back.” Shaw shakes her head with a rueful smile.

“I’m doing what you  _hired_  me to do, Harold,” she spits, taking him off guard. “If she’s not okay working with me, she can do something  _else_.” The thought of Root traveling alone runs through Shaw’s head, and an icy chill travels down her spine. Part of her wonders if she should comply, agree to his demands on paper but do what she wants on the field. Root wouldn’t rat her out, would she?

“I know what you’re thinking,” Harold tells her, interrupting her scheme without any anger. “And while you might be right, and I cannot force you to do otherwise, you should think about Miss. Groves. The more you put yourself in danger, the worse she will get. You did not see how she was like, but we did, and-”

“And  _what_ ,” Shaw seethes, hating all of this. Her coffee is ice cold now, but the fire roaring in her veins leaves her more than warm enough.

“We won’t-  _don’t_  plan on letting you hurt her in any way.”

“ _We_?” Shaw echoes spitefully. “Who’s  _we_? Your guard dog and Bear, here?”

“ _And_  Detective Fusco,” Harold adds tightly, to which Shaw rolls her eyes. “Her mindset wasn’t well- none of us want her to act that way longer than she has to. And at the end of the day, that all depends on  _you_. The way you talk to her, and the way you act  _around_  her.”

“So I should just throw flowers at her feet and wear bubble wrap,” Shaw offers sarcastically, and Harold’s lip twitches.

“You should  _think_  about it,” he corrects, back becoming stiff. “In the mean time,” he roots in his left pocket, protruding a set of keys, “Bear needs a ride back to the station.”

___________\ We’ll Find You /____________

 _The talk? Really?_  Shaw swore under her breath and cursed every god, deity, and mythical creature that came to mind on the car ride back. Her mind was a cocktail mixed with Harold’s heeding and Root, swirling down and making her sick. Every situation she’d been in since returning is analyzed to the last strand of hair three times over, trying to sort out what’s changed and why.

 _Am I more dangerous? Is she worried? Or just scared? Scared of what?_  The swell of words make her lightheaded, yet she can’t stop thinking them over.

She’d been avoiding Root-  _kind of._  Any chance at friendly conversation she denied; she cold shouldered Root any time that Root looked nervous; she ran ahead instead of waiting for Root’s assistance.  _That’s what happened today_ , she remembers, fingers grazing the now scabbing slash on her cheek.

“Look who decided to show up,” Root’s purr travels through the station, hitting Shaw like a warm breeze after the cold air outside. Bear gallops into the terminal, picking Root out at once as she unfolds from the desk chair.

“Not my call. Bear needed an escort,” Shaw responds, taking a few more steps forward, watching as Root closes the space casually between them. Root smiles warmly at Shaw’s remark, and Shaw notices that the color has returned to Root’s face.

“What did Harold want to talk to you about?” She asks, grabbing the half empty coffee cup from Shaw and taking a swig. Her nose crinkles at the bitter, icy liquid, and she holds the cup back. Looking at it with eyes narrowed from the disturbing flavor, she presses her lips together, then hands it back to Shaw, eyes falling on her, waiting for an answer.

For a minute, Shaw forgets what Root’s said. All she can focus on is the way Root’s nose crinkles, and the way her eyes smile, and the fact that she drank from her cup. Even though Shaw’s only plan for the stale coffee is to toss it, she feels compelled to wipe the mouthpiece off out of flustered spite. _She can’t just waltz on up and do that._  Then, her mind travels back Harold’s little ’ _don’t hurt her speech’_ , and she fights the urge.

Root’s eyes still keep an unabating hold, waiting for Shaw’s response. Shaw fumbles.

“Nothing. Just number stuff.” Root nods, not quite believing it, and one of the lights behind Root’s eyes goes out.  _You’re going in the wrong direction._

“Hey, Shaw,” Shaw turns at the sound of John Reese’s voice in the doorway. “We’ve got something to take care of.” Shaw raises her eyebrows in question, but his face gives nothing in return. Giving an internal sigh, Shaw shakes her head, turning back to Root. Yet, she has nothing left to say. And so, she merely gives her head the slightest nod, chugging down a swig of the coffee, then winces purposely at the taste. As she turns, she sees the grin that grows across Root’s face, and can’t decide whether to kick herself for the action or compliment herself on it.

_____________\ The Heartbreak Watchers /______________

“What do you want, Reese?”

“Good to see you too,” John responds, opening the back door to his SUV. Skeptical, Shaw slowly eases herself in, all the while watching him for any change in emotion. The door shuts to her right, footsteps surround the vehicle, then John slides into the driver’s seat. Starting the engine with ease, he pulls out of his parking spot and into the mayhem of the Manhattan streets.

“Is this an  _abduction_?” Shaw cracks, leaning back into the seat.

“More of an intervention.” Shaw’s head snaps to the left, eyes instantly focusing on the smirking face of Zoe Morgan. Shaw narrows her eyes in a friendly manner, muscles relaxing as her surroundings sink in.

“Did Harold put you up to this?” She asks, eyes boring into John’s through the rear view mirror. He says nothing, just continues to drive.

“ _John_  enlisted my help,” Zoe explains in her cool tone, and Reese’s lip twitches minutely at the reference. “He said there was a situation, and I that I’m the best person for the job.”

“I said you were the  _only_  person I  _knew_  that she might listen to,” John corrects, and a rumbling chuckle escapes her.

“Just drive, would you?” Although Zoe smiles, Shaw finds herself tensing once more- no amount of good feelings are able to circulate enough for her to remain calm.  _Reese’s asking for assistance, driving in private, leaving Root back at the station…_  Shaw’s thoughts trail off, an internal groan erupting within her.  _This is going to be another one of those 'talks’, isn’t it._  “How’s your ankle doing?” Zoe asks her, looking her over with studious eyes. Shaw immediately shuts herself down, not wanting to be analyzed- too clever to be dissected.

“It’s fine,” she answers neutrally, slouching back against the door handle of the truck. “How’s the occupation?”

“Vicious as ever,” Zoe responds, nodding her head with a smile. Then, leaning over to the cup holder, she grabs a coffee container for each hand, giving one to Shaw. “You ever own a cat, Shaw?”

“I hate cats.”

Zoe chuckles to herself, but presses on. “I’m  _sure_. See, the thing about felines, is that they don’t trust easily. Most have this tendency to travel alone, or to believe they are secluded even when in a pack. It takes a lot of time for them to accept their surroundings- to allow themselves to be an official part of a group.”

“Are you calling me a house cat?” Shaw jokes, needing to get the serious energy out of the air. It doesn’t work.

“I’m saying you need to understand you’re not alone. That  _we’re_ here to help.” Part of Shaw is relieved-  _it’s not about Root_ \- but part of her feels under attack-  _what do they want from me._

“Don’t you think you’re a little off topic?” John comments from the front seat, taking a sharp turn down a street filled with buildings that scrape the clouds.

“I’m working my way to it,” Zoe replies, jaw pulled a little taut. Clearing her throat, she turns her attention back to Shaw. “Who do you work with most? In your- you know-  _unusual_  occupation.” The answer comes to her at once, yet she’s reluctant to say it.

“…Root.” Zoe nods, eyes saying that she already knew, but her nodding a sign of new intel.

“So-  _maybe_ \- you should try working a little better with her?” Zoe offers, pretending like the idea just magically popped into her head. “ _Trust_  her a little more. Be a bit more  _open_.” Shaw’s lip tries to scowl, but she holds it back. Her mind is thrown back into the tornado from before, trying to sort out her definition of trust, and what her two capturers want it to project.

“And  _why_  would I do that?” Shaw questions, striving for innocence but still able to hear the raging undercurrents.

“Because it’s what she needs right now,” John interrupts, voice like an iceberg in an already sinking situation. His cold, blue eyes flicker to the mirror, their sharpness pinning Shaw to the spot. “You trust her. If you didn’t, you never would have agreed to partner up with her in the first place. All you need to do is find a way to let her know that.”

“She’s a big girl, Reese,” Shaw spits back in a dumbed-down manner. “She doesn’t  _need_  my assurance.”

“Maybe not, but she  _does_  need you.”

Silence.

Blood rushes to Shaw’s head, she can hear it pounding in her veins and drowning out her ears, while everything goes cold. A frigid snake slithers down her spine, and white noise fills her head, making it three times too heavy. She feels like a jellyfish in fresh water.

 _He’s lying._  That’s the first intelligible thought that surfaces in Shaw’s leaded head.  _He can’t possibly know that._  Root had always been fine in a firefight- sure Shaw’d dove in a few times- but they both did that for each other.  _She’s good with computers, she can defend herself- what does she need me for?_  The foggy memory of Root kidnapping her surfaces, dragging her into the grate-work underground. The sound of pressurized oxygen, and the heat of a flame thousands of degrees.

_I…need…you…_

A second chill wracks Shaw’s body at the memory; it’s like hearing a ghost. It meant nearly nothing then, and holds no weight in this situation, Shaw knows, but something about it leaves her a shade or two paler.

John stops the car, rolling down her window from the front panel. Instantly, icy air swallows her whole, sucking the heat from the vehicle and bathing her in late autumn’s chill. “See that building?” He asks.

It’s impossible to miss. Impressively large, with aged white brinks on aged white concrete stacked in perfect order, it seems to go on forever. Stories and stories up, each level more treacherous than the last, until the end appears, it’s size warped from the plight to the top. Shaw makes out what appears to be a ledge, then a smaller cube in the center of the roof.

“Yeah,” Shaw replies, the coldness fueling the utter irritation in her tone.

“Root almost fell off of it.”

Shaw swallows hard, throat constricting enough to make her pupils dilate. John rolls the window up, speeding away, but Shaw’s eyes remain glued to the premises. She wants to tell him to back up, to let her count the stories; the feet; the bricks. To let her calculate every shift of the wind; every crack in the foundation. However, as the building blurs into oblivion, Shaw knows it would’ve been useless anyway, for every outcome would be the same. Nausea begins to creep its way into Shaw’s stomach.

“You called,” Reese begins, and instantly Shaw wants him to stop.  _Needs_  him to stop. “So she took Harold to the roof, climbed up the ledge, and played a round of Chicken with the Machine to trace your call.” Parasites fester in Shaw’s stomach, slowly eating away at her as the image of Root balancing on a ledge takes over her mind. “Eyes closed.” An alien feeling punches Shaw in the chest, leaving a finicky burning in her heart as it pumps faster and harder.

She says nothing in reply.

Reese drives a little more before stopping again- this time in front of a gargantuan-sized hospital. _This place_ , Shaw thinks to herself,  _this place is familiar._ Cloudy visions swirl in her memory, everything like watching through fogged up glass. Smudges for faces and blurry outlines of IV drips; a white screen, and the constant beep of some distant, irksome noise. Her right hand rubs subconsciously at her left wrist, skin remembering something thick and leathery rubbing against it- pinning it down.

“Root was captured here,” he informs her, and the information comes like a dagger in her side. “She ever tell you that?”  _No,_ Shaw thinks, unable to understand why. “She was pretty close to having her ear taken off by a surgical saw- who knows- maybe  _worse_.” He’s laying everything out bare and blunt. Gruesome, merciless, unforgiving. Yet, as Shaw looks back to the rearview mirror, she can see the haunting in his eyes as he recounts the second-hand tale. The sharp whine of a surgical saw pierces Shaw’s ears, it’s sterile glint and whirring blade malicious. She can’t breathe.

“Two things don’t make a difference,” Shaw says slowly, words sitting thickly on her tongue. Anger erupts in John’s eyes, as if she’s finally set off the hidden land mine.

“We could drive to the hotel where she almost  _murdered_  Harold’s friend,” he suggests, throwing the SUV into drive. “We could take a ride up to the factory where she held a  _machine gun_ to man’s head looking for you. Or the warehouse where she repeatedly  _electrocuted_  Control. Or why don’t we all take a trip to the Maple hotel room where Root  _drilled a hole_  into a woman’s  _hand_. Let’s-”

“I think she  _gets_  it, John.” Zoe cuts him off, eyes stern and voice grave. He remains silent after that, but the pent-up rage screams from his every pore the rest of the ride. She stares at the back of his head for a minute or two more, then brings her gaze to Shaw.

She gets it, alright. From tip of her nose to each digit and joint and throughout every strand of her hair. It’s in her head like a looped film reel; it coats her eyes like sand; it sits in her mouth like cyanide. Like a monster, it creeps out from the shadows with jagged teeth and grizzly talons, breathing down her neck and snapping at her sanity. She gets it, alright.

Before, Shaw heard the alluding comments to a different side Root and saw the concerned looks almost always cast Root’s way- but it never meant anything to her. It was like staring down at a novel scripted in foreign languages. Now, not only is it all in simple English, but it comes with every picture colored in.

Feeling thoroughly frozen over, Shaw chugs back a large gulp of her- thus far- untouched coffee. It’s tepid and bitter- the churning of her stomach not helping her cause. She can feel it slide down her throat before settling in her stomach, the liquid curdling like sour milk left out in a heat wave.

John pulls over a few blocks from the subway terminal, the sound of locks releasing like a sonic boom in the silence. But Shaw doesn’t jump. Instead, she raises the cup Zoe’s way as a means of thanks, then slips John one last look through the mirror before getting out. She’s unsure if he’s parking, or if he’s staying, or if she was even supposed to get out- but she needs the air. The space. The solitude. The fine line between right and wrong comes crashing down on her in a jumbled heap, and she has no idea where to begin.

Of all the things she expected to return to, the team being so overprotective of Root was not one of them. Hell, she never expected any problems with Root in the first place. If anything, the slightest rough patch.  _Maybe._

Gears start to chug along in Shaw’s head, a short To-Do list writing itself in the margins of her cluttered head.  _What to do, how to act…_  How to assure Root that there’s nothing to worry about.  _If it requires talking, I’m screwed_ , Shaw thinks, jaw clenching in frustration. All of it seems ludicrous to her. As she muddles over her seemingly few options, her phone gives a quick buzz.

FUSCO: You got a spare minute?

Shaw deliberates upon not answering, but decides against it.

ME: Why?

FUSCO: Just wanna talk about something.

Shaw groans, dying just a little bit more on the inside.

ME: No.

Just as she goes to shove the cell back in her pocket, it rings once again.

FUSCO: Over coffee?

Shaw turns her gaze to the half-empty cup of coffee in her hand, and her stomach lurches. The chance of vomiting becoming more and more imminent, she tosses it into the nearest trashcan.

ME: No.

FUSCO: Alcohol?

 _No means no, ass hat_ , Shaw thinks to herself, mood souring by the second. _I know the drill already. I get it._ Her phone rings again.

FUSCO: On me??

She lets out a half beaten sigh. With so much resting seeming to rest on her shoulders, a couple free drinks don’t seem so threatening.

ME: Fine. Pick a place. We can talk.


End file.
